The Beat of Silence
by Paper Lilly Webs
Summary: "He keeps his scarlet eyes trained away from the crowd, away from the flashing neon lights, and focused in the turntables in front of him. Sometimes you'd say he's more dedicated to music than you are." Humanstuck DaveKat Oneshot. T just in case, general for lack of a better one. Better summary inside, sorry for crappy quality and shortness - '


**FULL SUMMARY**: "His hand moves away from yours for a second, spinning the black vinyl and flipping a dial, bringing a grin to your lips as the new sound leaves the speakers, pulsating around the club. He keeps his scarlet eyes trained away from the crowd, away from the flashing neon lights, and focused in the turntables in front of him. Sometimes you'd say he's more dedicated to music than you are."

Short DaveKat Humanstuck Oneshot. There's something about Karkat that I would love to tag, but that'd ruin the ending. Sorry for the crappy quality and shortness of this fic; writer's block is a bitch.

**A/N**: Welp, I have no idea why I'm posing this. I hate how it came out, and I had such a vibrant idea, and it just kind of... flopped. I might rewrite it in the future, if I can actually get past how much I hate this version )X

~Webs

* * *

His heartbeat is slow and strong against your chest, bleeding through his back and infecting your core. His movements are swift, calculated, precise. You've never seen someone move their hands with such conviction.

You keep a hand planted firmly on the front of his hip, the other reaching out to cover his, where his fingers rest on the scratched record. You keep your chin leaned against his head, not quite on top, and match your breathing to his. He has his favorite headphones clamped over his ears, connected to the twin-jack that leads to your own headphones, though those are resting unused around your neck. He's dressed in gray skinny jeans and a torn black tank top that shows much more skin than it should, his feet slipped into black combat boots.

His hand moves away from yours for a second, spinning the black vinyl and flipping a dial, bringing a grin to your lips as the new sound leaves the speakers, pulsating around the club. He keeps his scarlet eyes trained away from the crowd, away from the flashing neon lights, and focused in the turntables in front of him. Sometimes you'd say he's more dedicated to music than you are.

With Karkat so close to you, it's easy to block out the loud voices of the people on the dance-floor, and keep your attention on his warm body, his quick gestures and minute changes. As much as you love making the beats, you let him take the wheel, your hand only resting on his and relishing in the feel of movement, in the creation of music.

Part of your agreement when the two of you had taken this job was to wing everything; no prerecords, no written music: a new mix every night. You record the mix of the night of course, not wanting to lose a second of Karkat's creations, but the delecation of something new keeps you both inspired.

Of course, you don't think you can run out of inspiration with you muse tucked against you and not caring who sees. Your boss is okay with your relationship, but it was a huge leap for him to let you two on stage together; not every one of the people who come in and out of the club is appreciative or understanding for homosexuals, but you had vowed not to let Karkat on stage without you, and you intend to keep that vow.

Karkat starts tapping his heel against the cement platform you're standing on, and you grin into the side of his head, nuzzling your nose into the hair just behind his headphones. He leans into the touch, but makes no other move that would distract him from the fluctuating beats.

Once Karkat's on a roll, there's no sopping him.

_-oOo-_

You don't really know how long you two are up there, you just know you have hours of music recorded and it's nearing the early hours of the morning. People are starting to leave, employees are starting to clean up, and even Karkat is winding down, playing slower and slower music.

Of course, even then they pulsate faster than a heartbeat, but they're mellower, softer. You can't help but smile when he starts mixing in one of John's piano pieces with a remix of one of Rose's violin ones. A fierce backbeat and you wonder why you haven't tried this before.

You start drumming your fingers against his abdomen in time with the violin, and you feel him press closer to you. A hum starts low in your chest, and his tinkling laugh joins it a moment later. Good lord, you love that sound more than music.

You'd never tell him though, because he wouldn't believe you anyway. He never believes any of your compliments and just gets flustered, so you make it a point to compliment him at the very least once a day. His cherry-red blush is the highlight of your stressful week, even if he gets mad at you for smiling stupidly at him.

It's nearing four in the morning when the club has finally cleared out, and you catch the manager waving at you from his office, telling you that you're free to go. You release Karkat, and that's enough to tell him it's time to leave, though it takes him a second to shut down all the equipment.

Once he's done that, he slips off his headphones and turns around to face you, where you're still close enough to embrace him, pressing a quick kiss against your lips; he's ever the hopeless romantic, and you really don't mind.

You two spend the next ten minutes packing up your stuff in silence, before bidding the manager and the employees goodbye, stepping out into the night air of the back alley cutting behind the club. You walk in the silence you've grown quite accustomed to since knowing Karkat; over chat and text, he seems like the loud sort, but you know he's actually one of the quietest people anyone will ever meet.

Once in the safety of street lights heading in the direction of your car, you glance at your boyfriend, smirking, and he knows immediately what for: _"Tonight was a good night."_

He grins at you, shifting his bag to his shoulder to sign out "I can't wait until tomorrow night," with his hands. You forgot to mention the most amazing thing about Karkat Vantas the music maker: he's ninety-eight percent deaf.

How's that for irony?

* * *

**A/N: **Sooooo, yeah. KK's deaf. Um, I don't think I have anything else to say, other than sorry for how crappy this is. I've been suffering from a mild case of writer's block, so I guess that transferred to this (plus, I've been having trouble with literally everything I've been doing recently, schoolwork included).

So, um, thanks for reading?  
~Webs


End file.
